Grey like the gravel under our shoes
by varjaks
Summary: Matter of fact and with his eyes pinning hers, Sherlock made the idea of breaking into a building to retrieve files in the interest of national security sound perfectly normal. "It probably is to him," Molly considers as she tips the water out of her shoes. (Prompt fill for: Sometimes, Molly helps Sherlock out with cases.)


A/N: I just really love the idea that Molly is such a help to Sherlock even more than what we see on the show. Just a short fluffy piece as I finish transferring the final part of my Swaplock fic to this site.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything except Mr. Forrester.

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Crawling out of the Thames with the cold seeping deep into her bones, Molly struggles to remember why she left her flat in the first place. She thinks fondly of her overstuffed couch and the stack of novels she left on the coffee table before rushing out the door. Why was running around London past midnight such a good idea again?

"John would have shot him," Sherlock states as he calmly steps out of the water. His already snug button-up clings to his chest and Molly's mouth goes dry. _Right, he's why. _Matter of fact and with his eyes pinning hers, Sherlock made the idea of breaking into a building to retrieve files in the interest of national security sound perfectly normal.

_It probably is to him, _Molly considers as she tips the water out of her shoes.

"At least I have the flash drive." He fishes it and his mobile from a ziplock bag tucked in one of the pockets of his suit jacket. Sherlock's instantly firing off texts to God knows who and completely unaware of frozen look on Molly's face.

She hurriedly feels around her pockets before finding her waterlogged mobile. She tries to turn it on, but sparks fly and she drops it on the ground. _Great,_ Molly thinks as she toes the pieces.

"And Mr. Forrester?" Molly asks, suddenly remembering the man they were running from when they jumped in the river.

"Mr. Forrester couldn't swim," Sherlock replies without looking up from his texting.

Molly's eyes widen at that. "Couldn't?" She looks back to the water. The surface is still and almost looks inviting lit up by the bobbing reflections of the street lamps.

"Lestrade should be here in five minutes. Unfortunately, Anderson's back from his holiday." Sherlock's lips curl in obvious distaste. He sends one last text before he leads her to a heavily tinted car down the road.

"Sherlock," Mycroft greets while his secretary puts down her Blackberry long enough to pass around some towels.

Mycroft's eyes shift to Molly and she takes no offense at the surprise that colours his tone when he greets her as "Miss Hooper." No one but Sherlock understands the reason behind his occasional requests for her company; even in John's absence, Molly knows that there are people who are more fit to chase criminals than a pathologist who can barely keep up with his strides.

"The next time you need someone to do your legwork, Mycroft, kindly refrain from contacting me," Sherlock says, scowling at his brother. He hands Mycroft the flash drive. "This was nothing more than a 6."

"One which took you four hours to finish. It turns out I'm not the only one who's getting slow," Mycroft bites back. A smile, one that borders on polite and feral, thins his lips.

Sherlock bristles but calmly takes his coat and scarf from Anthea. When did he manage that? Molly looks down miserably at her own coat, sodden and absolutely useless now for keeping out the cold.

"C'mon, Molly." Sherlock's words snap her out of her reverie. She mutters a quick thank you to Mycroft and Anthea before jogging to Sherlock's side. The silence is uncomfortable and Molly thinks to say something before deciding against it. Sherlock glances at her and she doesn't doubt that he reads it all on her face. Eyes trained forward, he nods in a way that might be approving.

"Here." Molly shifts her stare from the proffered coat to the impassive look on Sherlock's face. She is ready to refuse when his eyes flash with definite amusement. "Molly, your apartment block is approximately ten minutes away. I'm sure my body can forgo a coat in the meantime."

Molly would have put up a better fight or at least comment on the fact that he is walking her home (_really, she would have_), but Sherlock's last sentence draws her attention back to the way his shirt is still clinging. Wordlessly, she stops walking long enough to shed her coat and replace it with his. The sleeves need to be pulled at the elbows, and she carefully gathers the material in her hands to keep it off the ground. Molly's drowning in a sea of tailored grey wool, but she just folds the coat closer around her.

Sherlock brushes off her thanks and gives her precise instructions about the set-up for tomorrow's experiment. Molly does her best to commit them to memory even as the collar scratches pleasantly against her flushed cheeks, distracting her with stupid thoughts about early mornings when his still-stubbled chin bumps—

"Molly?"

Her eyes snap to his and she only misses a beat. "You need a pair of feet from a Caucasian male, size 10, 40 to 60 years old. Time of death should be 30 hours or less." His steps don't falter but Molly sees the surprise on his face. She thinks that he might say something else (his mouth is restless like he's arranging the words bouncing around his head) but nothing comes of it.

Sherlock is content with the silence and Molly, cocooned in his coat and the faint scent of soap and aftershave, is busy with her own thoughts. She wonders, save for "Mummy" and Mrs. Hudson, if this is the closest anyone has ever gotten to hugging the world's only consulting detective. More than that, she wonders if a second case before John returns from Dublin this weekend is asking for too much.


End file.
